


Arcadia for Amateurs: Memoirs of a wildlife photographer and his honorable outlaw

by Ginger_puff



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Albert Let Me Love You Mason, Arthur I've Said Too Much Morgan, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, High Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Mild Gore, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Soft boys being soft, Someone get Albert a drink because he's thirsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-03-08 18:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_puff/pseuds/Ginger_puff
Summary: Or five times Arthur came to Albert's rescue and one time Albert returned the favor.





	1. The Coyote

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so late to this game but it has consumed my every waking moment. Albert is my pure, naive baby and Arthur is my sweet jaded son who will punch a cougar in the face to protect him. Which doesn't happen in this chapter, but if people ask I may try to work it in. 
> 
> Also planning a continuation 5+1 part 2 because I have no self-control.
> 
> Dislcaimer: I have used some dialogue from the game but attempted to add my own spin on it. Lyrics are from 'Spirits' by The Strumbellas.

_And I don't want a never ending life_  
_I just want to be alive while I'm here_

 

The last week has been nothing but a string of misfortunes for Albert Mason, amateur wildlife photographer. Not only had the better part of his wardrobe been mishandled and subsequently lost on the train from New York, but he had been stranded at Flatneck Station. A station which, he learned from the faded block letters painted on the far side of the vacant building, was only meant to be a cargo stop. Why nobody had thought to mention that _before_ he disembarked the train was a question he’d had ample time to mull over on the interminable walk into to town.

But by god, the splendor of this country! Trees taller than any construct of man, pastoral vistas as far as the eye could see. An unspoiled utopia.

The butcher in town had been skeptical but obliging enough to contribute scraps for Albert’s first goal: photographing one of the area’s magnificent carnivores

Albert had spent the better part of the morning finding a setting with suitable light and low enough branches to set up a lure. It was the same design detailed in Captain O’Connell’s hideous _Wolf Trapping: An Art_. The Captain belonged to that despicable sort of man who found pleasure in trapping and skinning ‘lesser’ creatures, so the idea of using his stratagem to glorify such animals instead of harming them gives Arthur a vindictive sort of joy; even though it does still makes his blood boil to carry the blasted thing around.

But first, finding the right frame. To catch one mid-leap will be no easy task and it gives him plenty to think on while he goes about assembling the tripod and mounting his folding camera.

Albert huffs in frustration, crouching and straightening like a catholic at mass to find the perfect angle, muttering to himself, “I just don’t know...”

He is so absorbed in the problem at hand that when a rough voice calls, “Mornin’ to you,” he nearly jumps out of his skin. Albert staggers away from the camera, clutching at his heart. A stranger stands a polite distance away, the most gorgeous white Arabian he’s has ever laid eyes on grazing just behind him, and Albert is grateful for the distance since it takes him a few seconds to catch his breath.

“Hello,” Albert finally manages. He raises his arms in a vague gesture skyward. “Quite a day, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” the stranger replies gamely.  

“What a country,” Albert breathes. And it really is. Positively breathtaking.

“Don’t sound like you’re from around here,” the stranger drawls. “Where you from, mister?”

“I’m from Albany, actually. Working on a project,” Albert answers. He gestures proudly. “Photography.”

The stranger drifts closer to peer curiously at the camera. His rolled sleeves reveal strong, tanned forearms. The polished metal of revolvers catches the sunlight from where they’re holstered on the low-slung belt across the man’s hips.

“Yeah, I guessed that bit,” he says wryly, a grin pulling at his lips.

“Wildlife, that’s my thing,” Albert explains, then pauses. “Or, that’s what I want to be my thing.” Wanted it ever since the stories Grandfather told him of the untamable wild and all its wonders. Wanted it since he first held a camera in his hands. Every day until this one has simply been about paying dues.

“If I have to take another picture of a grumpy house frau, or pompous middle-class burgher I will feed myself to the lions!”

The stranger hooks his thumbs into his belt buckle, head cocked as he eyes Albert speculatively. “Sounds like the house fraus would pay better than the lion.”

“Quite right!” Albert chuckles. “Enough to travel out here and finally do what I’ve always dreamed of.” He can’t help the enthusiasm that colors his voice.

“Now, stand here.”

“Here?” The man asks, confused but already moving to comply.

“Just,” Albert beckons, waving his hands until the man is standing beside him. Albert gently turns him to face the soon-to-be lure and despite being manhandled, the stranger moves readily at Albert’s touch.

“There.” He holds out a hand, “Albert Mason.”

The man reciprocates, his grip warm and callus-rough around Albert’s. “Arthur Morgan,” he says in that deep, gritty voice.

“Pleasure!” Albert pats his impressively solid shoulder before checking the scene once more through the camera.

“I’m trying to find and capture images of our great predators before our greatest predators kill them all and stick them on some clubhouse wall.”

When he straightens, Mr. Morgan is nodding solemnly with something like understanding in his eyes, which. Well. That certainly is a rare response. Most of the folk he talks to these days are firmly among the camp of those villains who take the necessary evil of trapping and hunting and turn it into a competition of manly prowess and accomplishment. As if a man’s worth could be measured in the pull of a trigger.

“Good luck with that,” Mr. Morgan says, and he sounds so sincere. Not half-hearted or sarcastic. Warmth floods through Albert’s breast.

“Thank you! Not the easiest but, well, I do love a challenge.”

“Didn’t see any predators on the way in,” Mr. Morgan comments. He looks around now almost as if he expects Albert to have one hidden away somewhere.

“Ah! The trick is to string up a big load of meat,” he explains, undeterred as Mr. Morgan’s eyebrows arch dubiously, “and relax, and pray they don’t mistake me for lunch.”

That startles a gruff laugh out of Mr. Morgan. Goodness. His eyes certainly are a striking blue. In fact, many things about this new acquaintance are quite striking.

But movement and rustling distracts him from his thoughts. Albert yelps at the sight of a creature, alarmingly close and sniffing at his leather bag.

“Good heavens!” he exclaims.

Both men watch in shock as the creature gathers the handles of the bag in its mouth and darts over the rise. Between one breath and the next, it is out of sight.

Albert points at where little thief disappeared. “My bag. That thing is robbing me!”

Everything important is in that bag. He’s a right fool of a man to leave all the extra film in one place. This will be his undoing. Ruined before he even has the chance to properly start!

“That _thing_ is a coyote. Sneaky one, too,” says Mr. Morgan before chasing after it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll catch him!” He calls over his shoulder, and even though Albert knows this man all of five minutes it’s astonishingly reassuring. His panicked brain latches onto Mr. Morgan’s words like a drowning man to a lifeline. _Of course_ the creature was a coyote. Coyote, _canus latrans_ of the canine family, often called the prairie wolf, common in Native folklore as a trickster. Yes. Of course. Scavengers that most certainly do not eat people. Or film.

He flushes hot with embarrassment.

When Mr. Morgan returns some time later with a smug, “Well, well. I got your bag,”  Albert is of a sound enough mind to be gratified that his new friend had resolved the issue without violence to the coyote, no matter how deserving the little devil was.

“Oh thank you, thank you Mister Morgan,” Albert cries, gratefully accepting the bag as it is extended to him.

“Bag full of meat will tend to bring out the worst in the local population,” Arthur teases. “And just Arthur’s fine.”

Albert titters and _mercy_ if he isn’t completely beguiled by such affability and good-humor in a near complete stranger turned personal savior. Not many would exert themselves to save a man from his own half-witted errors and Albert can tell by the humor in Arthur’s eyes that even though the man is too kind to voice it, the half-wit part is surely at the forefront of his mind.

He reaches out to squeeze Arthur’s shoulder in gratitude. “You are a true gentleman, Arthur. The bag also had a lot of my supplies. You’ve saved me days. I’m- I can’t thank you enough.”

Arthur glances down to where Albert’s hand rests on his shoulder. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“It’s nice, fellows like you goin’ out to,” he gestures lazily to the camera, “show people what it’s like out here. Capture some of it.”

There’s a swelling in Albert’s chest and whether it’s pride in his project, excitement at having found at least one like-minded soul who appreciates it, or simply generous words from a handsome man, it doesn’t matter because either way his face colors and Albert practically trips over his own feet as he returns to his camera, ducking his hot face behind the lens.

Working. Not hiding.

“Yes, well, you take care, sir.” He babbles, hand flailing a farewell.

Arthur huffs in amusement. “ _I_ ain’t the one trying to get myself eaten.”

There’s friendliness in his voice but the words still land sour. “Yes, I realize I am a fool,” Albert sighs, the happy tightness in his chest solidifying into an unpleasant heaviness in his gut. Of course Arthur was just being polite. One of these days he will have to fully resign himself to never be taken seriously. Especially by handsome cowboy-saviors.

And now his face is most assuredly on fire from shame. For which sins was he cursed with such a fair complexion?

“Didn’t say that,” Arthur says with surprising gentleness.

Albert gathers his courage to pull away from the camera and look the man in the eyes, but Arthur had turned, gazing into the forest with his thumbs again tucked casually into his belt. He has a strong profile. Dashingly rugged looks and bright eyes. For all of his bluster earlier about feeding himself to the lions, Albert would gladly take this portrait.

“Saw a bison a few weeks back,” Arthur says. “Whole herd of ‘em just grazing out on the plains. Amazing creatures.”

They pass a few more moments in companionable silence, Albert standing behind his camera unable to look away from Arthur. It is horribly impolite to stare. So he shouldn’t. But there are scars beneath the stubble of Arthur’s beard. And one on the curve of his bottom lip.

“Fascinating.”

Arthur nods, misunderstanding. “Friend of mine called them the ‘greatest of gifts’. Couldn’t get it outta my mind after seeing one up close like that. Bigger than any bear I ever saw. Made a few sketches from what I could remember.”

“You’re an artist? How wonderful! I’d be delighted to see them.” Bison are, of course, among the subjects he intends to photograph. To know Arthur shares his admiration is a delight.

Inexplicably, Arthur’s whole body jerks like a man startled from a dream. He whistles sharply for his horse and practically leaps into the saddle, shifting the reigns from one hand to the other and back before briefly meeting Albert’s questioning gaze.

Arthur’s face is tense, and Albert’s poor nerves spike once more at the notion that he has somehow caused offense, but- surely Albert is imagining the faint tinge of pink in his cheeks?

“I’ll keep an eye out for any obliging cougars, Mr. Mason,” he says tightly, tips his hat, and steers the Arabian away.

“Call me Albert, please,” he calls after Arthur. “Your kindness does you great credit, sir! Thank you again!”

Arthur doesn’t turn around, but he raises a hand in acknowledgement.

What a peculiarly charming man.

 


	2. The Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter is a bit longer because these two just got away from me. Albert is such fun to write. I hope you all enjoy reading.
> 
> Also, was anyone else bothered that you couldn't even give that guy a ride after a tree fell on him? Like, here's five bucks, sorry you're crippled for life. Have a nice day.

While Strawberry is hardly the beacon of civilization and culture Albert had been led to believe from the advertisements he had seen in Albany, it does boast the first halfway decent bath he’s had since departing the state. The modest tub has seen better days and there are a few sizable dents in the side walls, but after days of traveling encrusted in his own sweat the prospect of anything large enough to soak in is enough to bring tears to any man's eyes.

The people are perfectly pleasant. A fair number seem to ascribe to the gospel of kindness that the mayor often preaches with a single-minded zeal when he holds court on the welcome center veranda at all hours of the day.

And the evening.

And night.

It’s enough to try even Albert’s generous patience, so he spends as little time as possible in his small but comfortable room. When he’s not out taking photographs, he shares meals and small talk with the occupants of the Trackers Hotel. Although nobody ever shows interest in engaging him with a conversation about wildlife conservation or the art of photography, they indulge him prattling on for the most part so long as he also tells some of the more sensationalized tales of near-legendary creatures that some claim to inhabit the region.

They are a rough, but overall amicable sort of people and it is a genuine pleasure to be accepted so easily into their society. On one particularly enjoyable evening, Albert had recounted the incident with Arthur and the coyote.

“Truly, I would have been ruined had Mr. Morgan not come to my rescue.”

A man at the next table over had risen with some difficulty and, leaning heavily on a rudely crafted walking stick, limped through the crowd to tower over Albert’s shoulder.

“What you say that fellow’s name was?” The man asked.  

He had assessed the scowling man, who frankly had enough hair on his face and neck to be more beast than man, with rising trepidation.

Albert swallowed and immediately choked on his own spit.

“M-Morgan. Arthur Morgan.”

The man nodded vigorously, stern features relaxing into a friendly grin.

“Oh yes, I know him. Never forget the name of the man who saved my life,” he said, knocking the stick against his stiff leg.

“Tree fell wrong on me, damn near crushed me to death! Your Mr. Morgan helped lift it off me and took me all the way to the doctor in town. Saved my leg. Saved my life.”

It was an amazing story that Albert had thanked the stranger for sharing, grateful and feeling gratifyingly validated in his high estimation of Arthur’s character.

Arthur, who is close to his thoughts as Albert makes a second attempt at the shot that had been disrupted the week before. Today he had wasted no time stringing the cuts of pork up on a high tree limb. Now to figure the closest distance he can manage to set up the camera where the wind won’t betray his presence. Albert licks a finger and holds it aloft.

“If that’s coming from there,” he mutters to himself, “then it’s a westerly. So…”

He rotates in place, trying to get his bearings. “Or is it an easterly?” Either way, it blows his scent away from the site. Perfect.

“We’re fine. We’re fine. Long as it doesn’t pick up, we’re fine.”

“Hello again,” a familiarly gruff voice calls.

Albert turns to see Arthur striding towards him in the early morning light like a vision-- all fitted dark grey trousers and rolled white sleeves with a pale green vest that makes his eyes stand out beneath the wide brim of his hat.

It turns his insides into a tumultuous riot that he tries his damnedest to ignore. So naturally Albert stumbles into the half-erected tripod and nearly knocks the whole thing over.

“Oh! Hello, Arthur.”

Arthur stops in his tracks and raises his hands disarmingly, “Apologies.”

With a weak laugh, he waves away Arthur’s concern. “No, I’m sorry. My nerves. I’m not quite the outdoor adventurer I thought if a friendly face can spook me so easily,” he laments. “Some days I wonder if the path I’ve chosen is the right one for me or if I’m foolishly pressing on in spite of myself.”

Arthur shakes his head in commiseration, walking up to stand at Albert’s side. “I know the feeling.”

“I certainly hope not!” Albert exclaims, companionably bumping their elbows together.

Arthur huffs a laugh and tucks his chin down, face briefly disappearing beneath the brim of his hat. After a moment he looks back to Albert. “What are you trying to take pictures of? Some more greedy coyotes?

“No,” Albert answers. “Wolves.”

“Wolves,” Arthur repeats disbelievingly. “Well, you really are trying to get yourself eaten.”

“Oh, I hope not. I left the meat over there,” he gestures, “just to be safe. You know, given the wind.”

“Yeah, sure,” Arthur says agreeably, “if you manage to attract the world’s least intelligent wolf.”

“It is a perfectly valid method!” Albert cries indignantly.

Arthur claps him on the shoulder. “Calm down, Mason. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers. I’ll stay with you a while. If anything comes, I’ll protect you as needed.”

Albert’s heart throbs in his ears so intensely it will be a miracle if the hearing loss isn’t permanent. There’s no fighting the broad smile that comes to his face.

“You are such a gentleman, Arthur.”

“You don’t know me very well,” Arthur replies, sitting himself down.

He extends one long leg out in front of him and rests a hand on his bent knee, the image of a man in repose. It brings to Albert’s mind illustrations of similar leisurely grace observed among the feline family of predators. Ferocious power hidden beneath languid posturing.

“Well to me, you’re a gentleman,” Albert insists.

“Usually I’m worse than the wolves,” Arthur jokes, rousing Albert’s curiosity.

“You’ve had many dealings with wolves, Arthur?”

“Sure. Plenty,” he replies and something about the way his eyes darken gives Albert the feeling that they are no longer speaking about the same thing.

“But you’ve never been eaten?”

“Not through lack of trying on their part.” Arthur lets his head fall back, eyes closed. He looks haggard. Worn out in a way that no amount of good sleep can cure. It takes a considerable amount of Albert’s self-restraint to not pry. He would dearly like to, but the last time their discussion had crossed some invisible threshold of personal boundaries Arthur had hastily left. He would hate to risk the same outcome by trying the limits of Arthur’s tolerance.

Besides, the trust implicit in being permitted to see Arthur compromised this way even for a moment is humbling. And yet how easy it would be to reach down. To soothe some of that weariness with his own hands.

“A while back I helped a friend from getting devoured. Usually, they are not great fans of man,” Arthur says

“I don’t blame them.”

“Me neither,” Arthur agrees.

“Oh, that reminds me! I met a man the other day who claims to know you.”

“That so?” Arthur says guardedly.

“Yes. He didn’t give me his name, but he said you saved his life. A lumber worker who was nearly crushed by a tree?”

Arthur grunts. “How’s he getting on?”

“He seems well enough. Was full of praise for you. Do you make it a habit of rescuing every stranger you meet, Arthur?” He teases.

“No,” he replies, tone carefully neutral though the shadows under his eyes seem impossibly to deepen. “No I do not. But in your case, I guess so.”

“My own personal good samaritan!” Albert rejoices, determined to cheer Arthur through sheer force of will if necessary. “Thank you again, by the way.”

“It was just a coyote,” Arthur says dismissively.

“It was my equipment and film and observation notebook, all essential to the success of my project. Without it I would be ruined,” he looks Arthur in the eye, willing him to understand how grateful he is. “You’re a good man, Mister Morgan.”

He expects another deflection, or perhaps a self-deprecating remark. What he does not expect is for Arthur to look at him like he’s been punched in the gut, lips parted and eyes wide in surprise. Almost as if nobody has ever said those words to him before and it breaks Albert’s heart because men as kind-hearted as Arthur Morgan should be told every day how rare and wonderful they are.

It’s not simply that Arthur retrieved a stolen bag, or showed him a little kindness, or treated him with respect. And he knows how presumptuous it is to tell a man his own character after only two interactions, and he knows he trusts easily, but-

“Mason, I-”

“You didn’t shoot it,” Albert interjects.

“Huh?”

“The coyote. You didn’t shoot it. You have those guns and you certainly look like you know how to use them. I mean, the world you live in, this whole world, it isn’t kind. Not always. And it would have been _easier_ -”

“Get to your point, Mister Mason,” Arthur snaps.

“My point, Mister Morgan, is that you could have simply shot the creature instead of chasing after it, but you didn’t!” He continues quietly, “That belies a softer heart that you seem intent on denying.”

Arthur scowls fiercely at him, but Albert reckons it out of stubbornness rather than at any real anger. He opens his mouth to jest that Arthur’s secret is safe with him, but in an instant Arthur levers himself into a crouch, hands flying to the grip of his revolvers.

“Looks like we got company.”

Two large gray wolves stalk through the underbrush, quiet as ghosts. The sight of them sets Albert’s heart thrumming in anticipation.

“Yes! There they are… in the trees,” he whispers.

Arthur shushes him, but Albert continues, “Now, don’t do anything. I’m going to take a few photographs.”

The wolves eye the dangling meat with hungry eyes as they pace in slow circles. At ten feet above the ground, it should be nearly too high for them to easily reach. Albert readies camera’s flash, nearly vibrating with excess energy. Crouched at his feet, Arthur shifts warily in place. He draws both revolvers with silent proficiency and points them at the wolves.

“You don’t need to aim at them,” Albert hisses.

One wolf comes to a stop underneath the meat and howls; the eerie sound sends a chill down Albert’s spine.

“Good boys. Hungry boys. Come on,” he coaxes. “Look at them. Magnificent creatures.”

Arthur is maneuvering himself between Albert and the hungry predators, stepping dangerously close to the front of the camera.

“Stay back, stay back,” he rebukes. “Can’t have a man in the frame, they’d think it’s staged.”

“It sort of is,” Arthur grouses as Albert triggers the flash.

Several things happen at once. The wolves whip around, their lips peeling back into malicious snarls. More growls sound from behind and Arthur has both revolvers pointed at Albert’s chest.

Wait.

Arthur has both revolvers pointed at Albert’s-

The guns fire and Albert’s entire body clenches against the impact of a bullet that never comes. Instead, something whines wetly from behind him. In a daze, he turns. A wolf he hadn’t even _heard_ approach lies crumpled in a heap a short distance away, dying. Its throat is a mess of blood and carnage.

There are scuffles, chaotic sound and movement around him, but Albert can’t tear his eyes away from the weak streaks of bright red spurting out of the wolf’s neck.

_Good heavens._

Albert is distantly aware of someone calling his name, but his stomach is deciding whether or not it’s going to be sick.

A great force crashes into him, knocking him to the ground. He falls hard onto his side, head solidly striking the hard-packed dirt. It steals all the air from his lungs. Gasping ineffectually, Albert scrambles to roll onto his back. He has one frantic second to throw up his arms across his face as a wolf snaps at him. It misses by a hair, so close he can feel the hot, wet stench of its breath. Panicking, he grabs the closest thing within reach, a satchel, and holds it in front of him like a shield as the wolf lunges for his throat again.

Gunfire blasts louder than thunder and the wolf falls dead.

“Is that all of them?” Arthur asks. Which is hilarious that he believes Albert capable of speech after nearly being savaged by wolves. _Christ._

Arthur reaches down and helps haul Albert to his feet. It doesn’t go smoothly. His knees are as wobbly as a newborn calf and the only way he can remain upright is by bracing himself against the miraculously still standing tripod.

“My whole futile existence flashed before my eyes,” Arthur wheezes.

“Yeah, they can be pretty aggressive,” says Arthur, scanning for any lingering threats.

“What a way to… Literally a dog’s dinner.” Albert sucks in air, but it’s not enough. Academically he realizes that he’s hyperventilating but that awareness does nothing to ease the flood of adrenaline and sheer primal terror that turns his skin pale and clammy.

“Still, worse things happen at sea. At least, I imagine. Are they good swimmers? Well, who knows.” The camera had been knocked over and he fumbles for it. It’s a challenge to keep his movements slow and deliberate, but if he lets himself think for even the briefest measure of time about what has just transpired he will surely drop something, or break something. Something like the glass lens for instance, or any of the tiny mechanisms within the protective shell of the device, or himself.

“Just… checking the equipment, if only my hands weren’t shaking so much.”

Arthur gently but firmly grabs the collar of Albert’s vest and drags him stumbling to sit down on a nearby rock. He shoves a flask into Albert’s useless hands. With a concerted effort, Albert takes an inadvisably big swig that burns terribly going down. By his third, he feels put together enough to attempt actual speech.

“You have s-saved my poor, foolish skin once again.”

Arthur kneels in front of him and instead of the ridicule or politely concealed disgust Albert had feared he’d see, there is such naked concern in his rough features that Albert has to look away or be overwhelmed entirely.

“I can’t begin to repay-”

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur murmurs, looking unsure for a moment before reaching out to pat Albert on the back.

“Maybe you should look at taking pictures of less aggressive wildlife.”

Albert huffs a weak laugh, body finally beginning to relax as Arthur’s warm hand starts to rub slow circles on his upper back. “What do you recommend? I’ll defer to your judgement.”

He considers. “Rabbits are pretty manageable. Maybe farm animals.”

Albert appreciates the attempt at humor and the steady comfort of Arthur’s hand, but his own hands refuse to stop shaking and his ears are still ringing from the gunshots. The precariousness of his own mortality had just slapped him in the face and he’s _reeling_ from it.

“Rabbits for me, then,” he replies breathily.

What an actual disaster. He can’t even hold his composure at the sight of a dead wolf. Without Arthur he would surely be dead. Arthur, who is so confident and capable and every wit the manly gunslinger he had so often romanticized. Arthur, who looks as if he dearly wants to be removed from the uncomfortable necessity of comforting a grown wreck of a man like Albert Mason, and who could blame him? His cheeks are pink with obvious embarrassment and he can’t even meet Albert’s gaze, so he musters up his bravado and says, “I’ll be alright, Arthur. Don’t hang about on my account.”

_I’ve ruined this_ , he thinks forlornly as Arthur hastily stands and strides quickly toward his horse.

But instead of leaving, Arthur gathers the reins of both mounts and returns to where Albert is recovering.

“You know, there’s a right pretty creek nearby I was going to have a look at. Supposed to be good fishing.” He swallows nervously. “You want to come?”

Albert tries to politely refuse, saying, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose on your day any further, Arthur.”

“Well, I heard there’s a twenty-two pounder up there. Was hoping you’d be interested.”

And Albert has to take a second because while the wolves may have tried to eat him, Arthur Morgan’s fine blue eyes will most certainly be the death of him. 

“How can I refuse?”

When Arthur smiles wide and full at him, Albert pretends it's only the shock that's set his heart racing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Wild Horses

Albert is beginning to wonder if Arthur doesn’t have some sort of preternatural ability to arrive precisely when he’s needed because these horses have taken such personal offense to his existence that at this point, he would gladly sell his own soul if only that blasted pinto would let him take just one photograph. Even a blurry one.

But not even the arrival of his friend could lift Albert’s spirits.

“It’s a damned shame, Arthur,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting.

Arthur dismounts, grimacing as the muddy water engulfs his boots. “Hello to you, too, Mister Mason.”

“Forgive me,” Albert says and holds out his binoculars as Arthur slogs his way over. Just at the edge of the rocky hill, the small herd grazes without any regard for perspiring, sunburned wildlife photographers.

“I have been trying to capture the grace of the wild horses here for weeks,” he laments, “but, at least when it comes to herbivores, it seems they can’t stand me.”

Arthur snorts a laugh and raises the binoculars towards where Albert is pointing.

“Is that-” he says eagerly.

“Yes. A silver dapple pinto. He’s beautiful and he hates me.”

“Well, maybe he’s just shy,” Arthur jokes.

“More like he can smell my stupidity,” Albert whines.

Arthur hands back the binoculars. “You ain’t stupid, Mason,” he says, and before Albert can open his mouth to disagree, continues, “How about I drive him over for you?”

Albert gapes at his friend. “You would do that for me?"

“Of course,” Arthur replies easily, already heading back to his horse. “Just wait right here.”

Maybe one day it won’t come as such a surprise, but Albert can hardly believe his ears. Arthur has once more gone out of his way to aid a semi-professional idiot such as himself with no mention of reward. Charitable, big-hearted, and utterly baffling. It fills his fool heart with a hopeful yearning.

Could it be possible that Arthur has affections for him?

What a ridiculous, fanciful notion. Albert dismisses it immediately in favor of pondering the much more pressing question of whether or not _he_ has feelings for Arthur? Albert doesn’t think he has ever met a more honorable man than Arthur Morgan. Certainly none more ruggedly attractive. He has a subtly commanding presence but isn’t overbearing. Competent in violence but never heavy-handed with it.

Albert vividly remembers how Arthur’s warm hand had felt through the thin fabric of his shirt. How the sun had shined golden in the stubble of his beard. His face heats at the thought of those rough hands on his bare skin. Touching his hair, his face. Arthur’s lips on his own...

He’s rescued from the impropriety of his thoughts by a crescendo of hooves and Arthur’s shouting as he wrangles the herd across the plain.

They pass closer than he ever dared to dream and Albert lets out a victorious cry.

“Yes! I’ve got it!”

Arthur slows his horse to a trot in the muddy field, a matching grin on his face.

“We did it, Mister Morgan! You are, once again, my savior.”

He leans forward in the saddle, resting his crossed arms over the horn. “Didn’t do much. Wrangling ain’t that difficult.”

“Perhaps not for you, but I assure you it is well beyond my capacity. You chase coyotes and fight off wolves. I’m having a hard time imagining you incapable of anything, Arthur.”

Arthur ducks his head and rubs at the back of his neck. “You’re too kind,” he mumbles, then slides off his horse and leads it over to join Albert. He’s like a vision. Long legs clad in dusty, mud-flecked trousers. Gunmetal glints at his hips with his stride. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing the tanned swell of collarbones.

“Where’re you-” He begins.

“Wait! Stop, stop, stop,” Albert cries. Arthur freezes mid-stride, drawing both revolvers lighting fast.

“What?” He asks, glancing around and behind for danger as Albert picks up the mounted camera. He carries it a ways over and fiddles with the setup.

“Don’t move. Stay right there. Actually, come this way a bit,” he says and beckons Arthur forward.

“What the hell are you on about, Mason?” Arthur growls, relaxing fractionally at the lack of an immediate threat.

“I’m photographing you, of course. Now please, before we lose the light!”

Arthur exhales hard through his nose, but he obliges Albert nonetheless after he holsters the weapons with more force than Albert believes is strictly necessary.

“Never knew you were so damned bossy, Mason.”

“Apologies, my dear man. This is simply too good an opportunity to pass by. The light is absolutely perfect.”

Right now Arthur is as much of a wonder as the pinto. Powerful and wild and in his element. Arthur with his shining eyes, broad smile, and easy humor. How reverently Arthur had spoken of the bison. that Arthur had looked on this same vast wilderness and shared in Albert’s wonder and awe in the face of something greater than himself.

He thinks abruptly with the clarity of conviction that if _this_ is the only photograph he takes on this entire expedition, the whole thing will have been worthwhile.

“You know, if you want something to commemorate not getting eaten this time I could try drawing that pinto for you. Save you from wasting your film.”

“You’re not a waste, Arthur,” Albert admonishes, “and you must be aware of how attractive a figure you are.”

Oh dear. He’d meant to say something drastically less incriminating.

Through the camera lens, Arthur has a look on his face that Albert can't quite discern. He's staring at Albert strangely and it's much less preferable to the carefree smile from earlier.

“No, that won’t do. Go back!”

“Do what, now?”

“Smile!”

“Smile?” Arthur repeats incredulously.

“Yes, like you just were. That was perfect.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. He mouths ‘smile’ disbelievingly and, seemingly at a loss, mutters under his breath to his horse.

Albert groans anxiously. “Please, Arthur, we’re losing the light!”

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head, smiling at Albert a bit differently than before. More subdued. Sincere. Albert takes the shot.

“Didn’t break your camera, did I?” He jokes, dropping the reins and coming to take his place at Albert’s side.

He’s standing so close that Albert can smell his pomade, feel the heat of his body.

“It’s made of st-” Albert coughs to clear his constricted throat because he may be as flustered as a lovesick schoolboy but if his body could remember that he’s a _grown man_ that would be most excellent.

“Sturdy stuff,” he finishes. “Come help me with my equipment, won’t you?”

While they disassemble the tripod and pack away Albert’s camera, Arthur is quiet. He looks thoughtful, and Albert gets the feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate being asked about whatever is on his mind. Besides, watching the muscles of his forearms flex as he lifts and carries the briefcase and camera case to his horse is thoroughly distracting.

Lord, what's gotten into him _?_

“Ah! I nearly forgot!” Albert jogs over to join Arthur at his horse. He reaches into the saddlebag and pulls out the photograph he had been saving.

“Here, it’s for you,” He says as he hands it to Arthur. “A print of the wolves before they tried to eat us.”

Arthur inspects the photograph, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“That’s real fine, Mason,” he says, enthralled with the photograph. “Thank you, kindly.”

Albert absolutely does not preen. Much.

Arthur carefully tucks the photograph safely into his satchel and mounts his horse. Albert knows this is the moment where he thanks his friend for once more coming to his rescue and wishes him well until they meet again, but the words don’t come. He finds himself dismayed to imagine the rest of the lonely evening without Arthur’s company.

“Where are you staying?” Arthur suddenly asks.

“I’ve rented a room in Emerald Ranch,” Albert says hopefully.

“Well, let me escort you back,” he says, hastily adding, “I mean, wouldn’t trust you not to get eaten by a bear or gnawed on by a hungry squirrel. Can’t take pictures without any fingers.”

Albert laughs gaily, “I would think not! You do me a great kindness, Arthur. What a gentleman you are!”

The grin dwindles into a thin half-smile, and the glimmer in Arthur’s eyes is gone. “I ain't nothing of the kind,” he says bitterly. The blatant self-loathing in that brief statement is so strong that it feels like it overflows straight into Albert’s lungs and mercilessly wrests the air from them.

They ride in silence, Arthur increasingly distant and Albert desperately wishing for the words to ease whatever wounds have caused that look in his friend’s eyes. Not for the first time, he curses the inadequacy of his own tongue. Of course he had noticed before how Arthur denied Albert’s well-meaning compliments, but he had attributed it to modesty. To know now that something obviously painful lies beneath it is distressing.

Albert nudges his horse closer to Arthur’s so their knees brush together and Arthur looks at him--intently, thoughtfully, searching--for a long series of seconds.

“All the same, I'd be grateful for your company,” Albert says will all the sincerity of his heart.

It wins him a ghost of a smile.

“You were joking about the bears, weren't you, Arthur?”

“About the bears? Yeah.” Arthur snorts, “But let me tell you about this lion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I write these two, the more I love them. Looking forward to these next few chapters because this is where we diverge slightly from canon, so hang on to your hats!


	4. The Bison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient while I wrestled my life into submission. Y'all are awesome. Double thanks to everyone who has left kudos or comments. They are absolutely inspiring and it means a lot to me that y'all take the time to do that. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter as we start winding up for a big finish!

The lazy afternoon stillness erupts with a chorus of angry accusations from inside the Valentine saloon. Its cheap false front wall and open windows do little to muffle the rowdy voices from inside and the following telltale sounds of a fist fight. 

Albert sits outside on the elevated porch, heels bouncing against the slats. He isn’t a violent man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he can’t help but be grateful for the distraction. Anything to interrupt this endless waiting. 

When Arthur had suggested meeting in Valentine to track a herd of bison for Albert’s project, he had been beyond ecstatic. Waiting was no easy task, but he had patiently endured the week Arthur said he would need to conclude his business before he could join Albert in town. The prospect of more time with Arthur was a buoy to his spirits on the long trail from Emerald Ranch, and during the interim he has photographed an ornery badger, some particularly breathtaking vistas, and a young whitetail buck. A local at the general store had even mentioned eagles.  _ Eagles! _ But Albert was loathe to strike out too far in case Arthur arrived early. 

With nothing else to occupy him, each passing hour is torturous. 

Sweat collects at his brow despite the overcast sky. The air smells of rain and is thick with humidity, undoubtedly reversing whatever progress the barber had made attempting to fashion his hair into something more presentable than the unruly mess weeks of travel had produced.

So much for making a favorable impression. He sighs feelingly.

These narrow roads seem to be perpetually muddy and the trails leading in weren’t in much better condition when he arrived two days ago. His poor horse had been covered up to the knees. But the locals appear untroubled by the muck. A massive tabby cat that has been roving between the general store and saloon all morning, undoubtedly searching for food, confidently navigates its way over to sniff curiously at Albert’s boot. 

“What a handsome fellow you are! Yes, indeed.” 

The large cat turns its green eyes up to his face, serenely judgemental in the way that only cats seem to be. Some people may attribute it to a lack of empathy or a sense of superiority, but in reality it is most likely symptomatic of a healthy dose of self-preservation in the face of a predator much larger than itself. Albert can certainly identify with that sentiment. 

“Do you live near here? Probably plenty of fat mice and birds to catch. Or soft-hearted men to con treats from.” 

The cat is obviously no stranger to humans with the way it rubs its fluffy cheek against the toe of his boot. It meows plaintively in a sort of ugly, deep garble. 

“Oh goodness,” Albert laughs, charmed despite himself, “I see. Already trying to butter me up, are you?” 

He opens his satchel and digs around inside. “Well you are in luck, you manipulative beast. I have a weakness for cats, you know. Incorrigible hedons, but your purr is delightful.” 

Albert withdraws a stringy bit of dried meat and pinches off a bite. He drops it in the grass and it barely touches the ground before being snatched up. 

“Now, if you want more you’ll have to come up here and let me have a look at you,” Albert says, placing more small pieces on the weathered porch. 

With enviable grace, the cat leaps up beside him and sets upon the treats. Albert runs a hand along the cat’s spine, long tail curling up in pleasure. The dark fur is soft and sticks to his fingers in damp clumps. He scratches the cat’s head between its ears. It purrs impossibly louder. 

“There’s a good boy. Good, good kitty,” Albert coos. 

Finished with his meal, the cat squirms away from his hand and retreats to the far corner of the porch to groom itself. Albert watches its pink tongue dart out to wet a wide paw. A very wide paw. Albert squints, then nods to himself, “As I suspected. You, my sweet friend, are polydactyl coon.” 

_ And I am talking to a cat _ , he thinks glumly. 

Although now that the idea of Arthur and  _ licking _ is careening through his brain like a drunken stagecoach, that’s probably for the best. 

“Well, there’s a word I never expected to hear in a backwater like this, much less used properly.”

Albert yelps, startling the cat and immediately flushing a deep red. He turns quickly to see a man watching him from the porch steps. He cuts a sleek figure, one hand tucked into the pocket of his well-tailored trousers, the sharp lines of his jacket and tie dull grey against a red waistcoat. 

“Are you a student of zoology, sir?” The man asks, doing him the kindness of ignoring Albert’s obvious embarrassment. 

“Of a sort,” Albert answers, standing swiftly. He wipes the fur off on his trousers and extends a hand to greet the man. “Albert Mason, pleasure to meet you.”

“Andrew Milton,” the man says, shaking his hand firmly. “It is a pleasure to meet a fellow city transplant such as myself. Well,” he pauses, smiling apologetically, “at least that is what I assume judging by your accent.” 

Albert brightens, “Quite right, Mister Milton! I’m from Albany originally, but sadly the lacking biodiversity within the city doesn’t lend itself to my current pursuit.”

“Which is?”

“Wildlife photography! It is my passion, sir. I’ve already established the beginnings of a portfolio in the time I’ve been here,” he says animatedly. “Great predators, clever scavengers, docile prey, I find them all fascinating! But what about you, sir? What brings you to Valentine?”

Milton withdraws a tiny white card from his coat pocket and hands it to Albert. It feels stiff, thick and clean-cut in a way that speaks of money. The man’s name and an address in Saint Denis are printed in tidy black letters. 

“I’m a representative consulting for the conservation branch of the National Academy of Sciences. Perhaps you have heard of them?”

Albert just barely catches the affronted scoff before it escapes his lips.  _ Perhaps  _ he has heard of the most highly regarded scientific institution in the nation. Like  _ perhaps _ he has spent hours studying each fresh publication that came within arm’s reach, poring over new words and theories, and photographs. Oh, how they captured in those images so much more than any amount of words could convey.  _ Perhaps _ . What a joke. 

Milton appears encouraged by the silence, and continues, “I’ve been dispatched to investigate claims of a particularly rare and endangered predator in New Hanover for a future publication.”

“Could it be the albino cougar I’ve heard rumors of?” Albert interjects. ”Some people claim it’s a man-eater, but my in my experience the most likely theory is-”

“An albino cougar!” Milton laughs, shaking his head. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. Please, permit me to buy you a drink, Mister Mason.” 

“Oh, I don’t do well with liquor, sir,” Albert hedges. He’s wary of causing offense, especially to such a valuable acquaintance, and yet he cannot stop looking once more down the muddy road for that familiar face. 

“Are you waiting for someone?” Milton inquires politely.

Albert is about to answer, but some gut feeling stays his tongue. Besides, engaging Mister Milton in conversation will pass the time more quickly and pleasantly than any of the other fleeting distraction his current situation can provide.

“I’d be happy to accompany you to continue our conversation, Mister Milton. I have a few prints I could show you, if you think the Academy may be interested.”

They take seats at the bar. Milton orders a whiskey and Albert does his best to rein in his enthusiasm, but it is a pure delight to discuss so freely with Mister Milton about the present course of human encroachment upon the country’s wildernesses and the resulting ecological ramifications that must surely follow. Arthur may empathize with Albert’s sentiments on the subject, but he can hardly imagine debating the contemporary political and philosophical particulars with the man. 

Not that Arthur doesn’t have the mind for it, of that he is sure no matter how simple he chooses to present himself. 

But now Albert’s back aches from sitting for so long. Looking out the window, the gloomy clouds have fully passed and the sun is bright at its full height. 

The sudden conviction that he has mistaken the date or the time. Or, good heavens, maybe he is in the wrong town? Surely the letter said Valentine because he can clearly recall the deep curve of the ‘V’ written in Arthur’s hand, but everything else is a tumult of uncertainty. It takes a herculean effort to not excuse himself and sprint back to the hotel to double-check the letter secured in his suitcase. 

Nerves fully roused, It takes little effort to imagine a dozen possible scenarios all of which, courtesy of his chronically unhelpful anxiety culminate in Arthur’s death. Because what other explanation can there be except that he was shot by bandits or mauled by a wild animal or thrown from his horse and is now lying wounded and alone in a ditch. 

His distraction must have shown because Mister Milton finishes his drink and stands from the bar.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. It has been my pleasure Mister Mason. An absolute pleasure.” 

He claps Albert on the shoulder as he passes behind him towards the entrance, but pauses and turns back around. “You know, now that I think about it, I believe my colleague is in possession of a photograph that might interest you. If,” he amends, holding up both hands as if to ward off offense, “you have the time, of course.”

Albert opens his mouth to politely refuse, but Milton continues with a knowing certainty in his eyes.

“Have you seen an ocelot before, sir?”

Albert’s jaw drops. 

“ _ No _ ,” he breathes.

Milton chuckles. “On my honor, it is.”

“Is the subject alive? Because, I promise you, Mister Milton, I won't support in any way the glorification of murdering animals for any reason. Photography alone is a terrible, narrowly prescribed idea of conservation, and-”   


“Don’t get your feathers ruffled, Mister Mason. The creature is very much alive. I’m told it was happened upon by happy accident. If you will follow me, please?” He gestures to the saloon’s entrance.

Albert hastens to follow. 

“How marvellous! Did you know that before the war ocelots were documented in nearly every county along the Mexican border,” he says, following Milton through the alley beside the saloon, “but both sides killed them by the hundreds to sell their pelts or keep them as trophies. Grotesque! And the continual development in the region is only contributing to their decline. Why, I shouldn’t be surprised if in the next hundred years we’ve managed to evict them from the country entirely!”

For the first time since leaving the saloon Albert actually takes in his surroundings. They are nowhere near the hotel, where Albert imagined Milton’s colleague to be. In fact, Milton seems to be leading him towards the church. Albert stops short of the dilapidated fence marking the edge of the property. 

“Excuse me, Mister Milton, but where exactly are we going? I believe-”

Milton stops a few paces ahead, turns back, and smiles. “My apologies, Mister Mason. I failed to mention that my colleague is of the religious sort. Enjoys the quiet, he says. This way,” he gestures invitingly, “just in the back garden, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Albert says, curious despite his misgivings. 

There is no garden when they round the corner. Instead, another man, younger but similarly dressed to Milton, stands beside a row of graves, two of which look inexplicably fresh and  Albert is immediately aware of how the church obstructs the view from the town and that, should anyone there be looking, no one would see them. 

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end.

“Mister Mason, meet Mister Ross. He is my assistant for this investigation.” 

To Ross he says, “The photograph, please, Edgar.”

Though they are dressed uniformly, Ross’ affect is the polar opposite to Milton’s easy charm. His countenance is utterly devoid of any friendliness or emotion. Just steely eyes shining unblinkingly in the weak afternoon light. Whatever religion the man allegedly subscribes to, Albert wants nothing to do with it. 

He hands an envelope to Albert, who takes it with great care to not actually touch the other man’s hand. A photograph slides out easily and, nerves forgotten, he whistles admiringly. It’s a great shot, so close he can clearly see the tangle of spots and streaks on the feline’s tawny fur. 

“What a marvel!” He holds the photograph close to his face. 

Milton takes a step closer to Albert, leaning over his shoulder to examine the photograph. He hums agreeably, then casually asks,  “When was the last time you saw Arthur Morgan?” 

Albert tears his attention away from the photograph, “Sorry?”

“Come now, Albert. I thought you were an educated man. You can’t play ignorant with me. Tall fellow, scar here,” he taps a finger at his upper lip, “sound familiar?”

Albert can only stare dumbly in shock. Questions flood his mind, but in the haze of confusion he can’t decide which one is most important to ask. 

“Maybe the five thousand dollar bounty on his head will jog your memory.” 

A bounty? 

_ Good lord _ . 

Has this entire encounter been devised in order to gain his trust and interrogate him about Arthur’s whereabouts? What on earth had compelled him to blindly follow a stranger to such a secluded location with graves fresh and at the ready? His own blind naivete, that’s what. And if these men are bounty hunters he’s going to die for it now because five thousand dollar-- _ christ _ \--bounty or not, there is no world where Albert will ever betray Arthur.  

“Truly, I have no idea-”

“We know you’re acquainted, Albert,” and the casual use of his name rankles, “you were only too happy to sing his praises in Strawberry. And Emerald Ranch. One might even think the two of you are friends.”

Albert’s mind races. The idea of being followed, of being stalked, churns in his stomach. And the way Milton said the word ‘friends’, as if the very idea was repulsive, stokes an unfamiliar anger in his heart.

“We are friends!” he blurts, then clutches the photograph tightly to his chest. Mercy, what is he thinking? 

Riggs continues to stare dispassionately at him, arms folded over his chest while Milton gestures for Albert to continue. 

“I, that is, he helped me with some of my photographs? And protected me from being savaged by wolves. I’m- I’m not the most suited for outdoor adventures, you see, and-”

Riggs’ hand slips into his jacket and silently withdraws a pistol. Albert very manfully does not whimper.

“That is to say, I mean, that. Well. We  _ were _ friends, I thought. Until,” his heart hammers so loudly in his chest that Albert can hardly catch his breath. His hands tremble. Sweat drips uncomfortably down the small of his back. 

“Until he robbed me!”

Milton stares searchingly at Albert. “He robbed you,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes! My father’s inscribed platinum pocket watch, and my camera, and, and all of my money.” His stomach is an absolute riot but he swallows and soldiers on. 

“Remember I said I don’t do well with liquor? Well, we were drinking and he tricked me into, ah, exceeding my tolerance. I’ll admit I was quite drunk and he robbed me blind. I’ve been waiting for my Aunt to send money so I can return home.” 

Being eaten alive by wolves would be far preferable to watching Milton digest that utter horseshit. He’s fairly confident he’s about to die, but if it prevents these men from finding Arthur he would do it a hundred times over. 

Miraculously, nobody shoots him. Milton chuckles and Riggs joins in an awkward second later. 

“I do apologize for this unpleasantness, Mister Mason,” he cajoles, as if he hadn’t been about to commit murder. “Allow me to reintroduce myself. Agent Milton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, seconded to the United States government. This is my partner Agent Riggs.”

Albert nods stiffly, unwilling to speak unless somehow the lawmen,  _ thank god they’re not bounty hunters _ , change their minds. 

“You understand now what kind of trouble Arthur Morgan is in, don’t you? Anyone associated with him will hang. No questions asked.” He slings an arm across Albert’s shoulders and slaps his chest right where the address card sits in his vest pocket. 

“You let me know if you see him again, won’t you.”

Albert’s skin crawls and it takes every bit of composure he has left to not flinch away. Or throw up on the man’s boots.

“I will. Thank you, Agent Milton.”

Milton smiles, a cold and dead thing. “You run along now, son. This is a dangerous country to be travelling in.”

Albert politely extracts himself and by sheer force of will turns his back to the agents. With every step his knees threaten to give out. He times his breath to his steps, every second expecting a bullet in the back. Inhale two steps, exhale three steps. Albert makes himself count to one hundred before outright sprinting to the hotel. 

He needs to get his things and leave. There will be no second chances with men like these, and he barely survived the first. Such unfeeling, predatory coldness. They most likely plan on following him to-

His heart stops.

What if Arthur has arrived in his absence? Fearful that he could be walking the streets in plain view at this very moment, Albert frantically searches the street. 

There’s no sign of Arthur, so he races to his room. It’s a blessing that he hadn’t unpacked at all since arriving, too eager to be off again. In a manner of seconds he gathers his camera and provisions and leaves just as quickly as he had arrived. 

If he can get to his horse quick enough and have her saddled then maybe, by some miracle, he could ride out and find Arthur. Warn him of the danger. 

The image of Agent Riggs standing at the ready, waiting for the order to shoot, sends a shiver down Albert’s spine. 

Thus distracted, as soon as he exits the hotel Albert collides with a great bear of a man. Envelope and case and camera go flying. Albert lands squarely on his back with such force that it robs him of his breath. 

Getting back up takes a great deal more coordination and breath than he currently has. He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest by a horse, but Albert makes it to his knees, hands braced on his thighs as he tries to recover some control over his lungs. 

“Are you blind?” the man he’s run into says furiously, an ugly scowl on his brutish face.

Albert would love to reply and defuse the situation but he  _ can’t breathe _ . He meets the man’s eyes for a moment before dropping his head to suck in air. The next thing he knows the man is grabbing him by the lapels and dragging him bodily to his feet. 

“Wait,” Albert wheezes, clawing weakly at the man’s arms.

“I said,” he snarls, breath wretched in Albert’s face, “are you blind, moron?”

“I apologize, sir,” Albert pants, “I didn’t see-”

But the man reeks of alcohol and sweat and filth and he’s cocking his fist back to punch Albert square in the face and he can’t pull away no matter how hard he struggles against the man’s grip.  

“Hey there, mister,” says a beautifully familiar voice. 

Albert peers over his assailant’s shoulder just in time to see Arthur strike the man’s head with the butt of his rifle. He collapses like a house of cards and Albert would have gone down with him had Arthur not reached out and caught him. 

“Can’t go anywhere without causing trouble, can you?” He says cheerfully, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. 

“Arthur, thank heavens!” Albert cries, instinctively reaching to steady himself against Arthur as his knees finally buckle.

“Easy now,” Arthur says, levity gone in a second. He frowns at Albert with concern. “You ain’t hurt, are you?”

Albert waves impatiently, “No, it’s not that. Oh, dear. Arthur, there are men looking for you. Absolute monsters and they’ll kill you if given half a chance. We must leave town immediately.” 

Arthur seems unmoved, which is maddening because Albert believes that he’s already expressed himself quite clearly with ‘men are here to kill you’ _. _

“What kind of men?”

“Does it matter? Agents, Pinkerton agents, and they suspect you’re here. Not that I said anything! He was so genteel,” Albert stammers, his chest is on fire but the words keep coming even as Arthur guides him back inside the hotel. With a chilling glare he sends the attendant fleeing.

“There was an ocelot but it was all a ruse. I thought they were going to shoot me. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life, not even when those wolves tried to eat us, but they’ve been  _ following me _ , Arthur, and who knows what else they’ve-”

Arthur covers Albert’s mouth with one hand, filling his nose with a mix of leather, horse, and gun oil. It’s only when he reaches out to cradle the back of Albert’s neck that he can feel how badly his body is shaking. 

“You’re alright, just breathe” he murmurs, gaze warm with such tenderness that Albert has to shut his eyes. On any other day the physical intimacy of their position alone would have done him in, but those eyes.

_ I’ve got you _ , they said.  _ It’s going to be okay _ .

If this is supposed to calm him down, Arthur had not thought it through well enough. Albert swallows. And swallows again. It’s monumentally difficult with Arthur’s fingers warm against his lips; it makes his skin tingle like mad.

Arthur’s thumb rubs the bare patch of skin behind his ear and Albert heaves a deep, shuddering sigh.   

“Can I let go now?” Arthur asks.

_ No _ , he thinks vehemently, but his traitorous head nods.

Arthur uncovers Albert’s mouth but doesn’t move away. Ready, as he always is, to offer help when needed. It is deeply humbling to be the recipient of such care. 

“Sorry. About that. You are well acquainted with my nerves,” Albert says, voice breathless.

Arthur scoffs. “The hell are you apologizing to me for? You’re the one nearly got shot just for knowing me.”

“I believe you’re missing the essential point that there are men here looking to kill you, Arthur.” 

“When is that not the case?” he mutters, and to Albert’s eternal regret Arthur releases him and makes to exit the hotel.

Albert lurches a step after him, desperately wishing to be back in Arthur’s embrace. 

“Thank you, my friend, for,” Albert gestures lamely between them, unable to articulate the feelings in his heart. The closeness had been calming, grounding, comforting, intimate. It is one thing to have your heart stolen, quite another to have it held carefully like something cherished. Like something worthy of love. 

Arthur slowly turns back to face him and Albert can see how carefully he’s choosing his words. He opens his mouth, stops, then shakes his head. For a split second, so fast Albert nearly misses it, he looks almost pained.  

He finally replies, “My brother used to get that way sometimes when he was real young. Seemed to work alright for him.”

“I didn’t know you have a brother.”

Arthur nods, “I’ll tell you about him. Someday.”

“I’d like that. Thank you,” Albert repeats, and puts all of his heart into it.

This time when Arthur turns to leave, Albert follows close behind. He half expects to be ambushed by the law when they step out into daylight, but aside from the man groaning on the hotel porch they are mostly alone with the exception of a few strangers that pass by without a second glance. 

Arthur delivers a swift kick in the ribs to the assailant and steps over him to collect Albert’s scattered belongings. With a whistle, he summons his horse and gestures for Albert to get on. 

“Go on, she’s a good girl.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. It’s quite alright, Arthur. The stables are just over there,” he protests, but Arthur is already heading down the road leaving Albert no choice but to follow. He gives the horse a tentative pat and eventually manages to get on, beyond grateful that Arthur couldn’t see him fail the first attempt on still shaky legs. 

Without any urging on his part the horse matches her master’s pace. 

“I,” Arthur starts, but falters. He clears his throat and looks down, face hidden beneath his hat. “I would understand you wanting to leave.”

“Leave?”

“You know it ain’t safe to be around me,” he says quietly. Albert opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur lifts his head to look Albert dead in the eyes and he can see that this isn’t self-deprecation or any other self-abasing comment. He’s serious, so Albert takes a moment to consider. 

Those agents had as much as said that if they saw him with Arthur he’d be shot as an accomplice. And no matter how much Albert would rather not dwell on it, Arthur is certainly not the sort of friend a gentleman should have. He’s an outlaw. A criminal. Maybe even a killer. There is no denying that part of Arthur is all of those things, and maybe more, maybe worse. But that part is only one piece of the man his heart calls for.  

“I trust you with my life, Arthur Morgan. You’ve proven yourself a capable guardian of it.”

Arthur regards him carefully and Albert prepares himself to brute force his way through whatever counter-argument the stubborn man must be brewing.

“Okay then.”

Albert gapes after him in bewilderment. He had expected more of a fight. 

“That’s it?”

“Sure,” Albert replies.

“I admit I thought we would argue quite a deal more.”

“Well, we can do that if you want,” Arthur laughs, “but I’m not inclined to make you second-guess staying. Might be selfish, but like I said, I ain’t no gentleman.”

They arrive at the stables and Arthur goes inside to fetch Albert’s horse, leaving Albert blessedly alone while he tries to sort through Arthur’s words. Arthur wants him to stay. Arthur likes being with him. It stokes the yearning in his heart to a consuming bonfire.

Too soon to even consider putting his feelings into words, Arthur returns with his horse. They rearrange their belongings equally among the horses and ride out to the plains. 

After a pleasant silence spent admiring the scenery and settling into a sense of normalcy after a hectic morning, Arthur grunts and digs in his coat pocket. He pulls out a wrinkled envelope and hands it to Albert. 

“I nearly forgot. Dropped this when you was picking fights in the street earlier.”

“Ha,” Albert laughs sarcastically, reaching to take it. With surprise he sees that it’s the photograph of the ocelot Milton gave him. He had almost forgotten all about it. 

“What is it?” 

Albert hands it back to him. “An ocelot. Have you heard of them? They have a unique mixture of markings among the feline family.”

Arthur hums, impressed. Albert gets a thrill watching him smile as he looks at the photograph. 

“They’re kind of cute,” he says, giving it back to Albert.

“I think so, too.”

“It’s real nice, probably worth some money.”

Albert scoffs, “I would never sell a photograph I didn’t take myself, Arthur! To do so would be highly disreputable.”

Arthur shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, and Albert realizes to him it probably doesn’t. 

“You gonna keep it at least?” 

“Of course! I wouldn’t leave anything this beautiful in the hands of such unworthy men.”

“There you go,” Arthur laughs, “thinking like an outlaw.”

“You would know,” Albert accuses. “What on earth could you have possibly done to earn a five thousand dollar bounty?”

Arthur’s face darkens. “Didn’t do nothing wrong, least not for that bounty. I just don’t play the game by their rules.”

Albert regards him, but lets it go. “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for saving me.”   


“You don’t need to,” Arthur says.

“All the same, thank you, Arthur. I meant what I said earlier, about trusting you,” he says earnestly. “You’ve been a great friend to me. I-” Why is he sweating so much? It shouldn’t be this difficult to say words. 

Arthur side-eyes him, but says nothing as they crest a hill and the herd of bison comes into view. It’s sublime. The creatures are shaggy and massive and humbling like all the truly wondrous things in this life that make him feel so small. 

Albert watches Arthur watching the buffalo and remembers when they first met, how he had described this moment in his own experience and Albert had felt the stirrings of something within his soul at his expression. 

“You're doing good work, Mason. This world,” he pauses, as if weighing his words, “don’t have a place for men like me in it no more. And I been thinking maybe that’s alright. Things change, times change, but this,” he nods towards the herd, “Folk should remember this.”

Albert stares at him longingly, heart fit to bursting. Albert shifts so their shoulders touch, Arthur a solid line of warmth at his side. He reflects on how Arthur has changed him. Saved him, of course, and befriended him. But also something about him is like an anchor. It draws him deep and settles him in the best way.

He yearns to express himself, to reassure Arthur that there is a place for him, always, in Albert’s world. 

What he says is, “Do you think I could try to ride one?”

  
Arthur startles the horses with the force of his laughter, eyes twinkling in delight, and Albert thinks that  _ this _ is something that should be remembered, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I have the last two chapters, a whole other 5+1 series, and a modern day AU that I have planned a ton of in the works. Stick around!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! More to come soon.


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